


A Feast for the Eyes

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blended Family Challenges, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Food Issues, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: A continuation of the piece "Quite an Eyeful."  There's been an addition to the family at 221B.  And challenges await.





	A Feast for the Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> It would definitely help to have read the previous piece where John finds out about Sameer, a child he (unknowingly) fathered whilst stationed (and injured) in Afghanistan. Sameer had been raised and cared for by his mother until her untimely death, which left Sameer in somewhat dire straits.
> 
> Until John Watson - and Sherlock, along with Rosie - intervened.

The renovations to the flat, finally complete, and Sameer and Rosie were finally in separate bedrooms. Rosie, at three, occasionally resisted being put to bed - a trait for which John laid full responsibility at Sherlock's feet, his environmental influence and his perhaps less than ideal role model. She also, as did most kids, had a substantial fear of missing out - but once she fell asleep, she was usually down for the count. Sameer, at eight, had been living there on Baker Street for a few months now, having arrived with a social worker/military liaison quite unexpectedly. John hadn't even known of his existence before the boy had been brought to London in the hopes John would be able to help. Although Sameer - both times - had been unplanned, John's strong moral code, his resilience, and his rather agreeable flatmate-partner had opened their home.

And opened their hearts.

Sameer had lovely Afghan features. His skin was honey-dark complected, dark straight hair, his smaller stature predominant, and upon looking, no one could possibly have guessed his paternal gene pool included a Scots-born, lighter haired John Watson. Until one took notice of Sameer's eyes. 

They were John Watson's through and through.

John's eyes, hands down, striking in their light colour. Exactly the same in intensity and perception. Startling in contrast to the darker skin.

Even these months later, it still caught Sherlock up short sometimes seeing them both together, particularly when they were focused on him, blinking in unity, the light and the fondness and the oft amused, more often than not puzzled.

Sherlock was downstairs one evening, fully engrossed as he researched something for their latest virtual case, while John put the kids to bed. John had already tucked Rosie in, her book and her story and her blanket, pillow fluffed, a kiss to her forehead, a gentle admonition involving going to sleep. Her door, slightly ajar, the nightlight a soft, tiny glow.

Sameer smiled as John came in to his bedroom. "Ready for bed, young man?"

They seldom used the online translator services anymore, mostly because Sameer's appetite and aptitude for English had been remarkable as they learned to share words, communicate, correct gently. Sameer's mother had introduced the language before she died, and, though his mother had worked with him a bit before she'd passed, he seldom struggled to the point of frustration anymore. A few of the conversations from time to time ended with a shrug or a regroup, but not often. "Yes papa."

The word still gave John a few chest-warming tingles. Rosie had been the one to decide, her matter-of-fact decision only a few days into Sameer's joining them. They'd been mildly awkward about it at first - except Rosie and Sherlock - but it was almost second nature now. "You brushed your teeth?"

In answer, Sameer grinned, showing rather than telling. John smiled back at the boy's open acceptance. Though it hadn't been easy for any of them, Sameer showed less sadness than he had, more connection with them, particularly as the weeks went on. He didn't upset easily, and was anxious to please.

++

Too anxious to please, John had told Sherlock one night. "It's like he has no selfishness in him at all. That he is so focused on helping. On doing. On not being a burden."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John and waited for John’s attention to settle. "Did you trust me as a flatmate within a few weeks of meeting me, of moving in?"

John's grin turned broad, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly and with feeling. "I don't trust you all that much now."

Sherlock gasped in mock horror.

"Perhaps it was the jumper incident last week. The fact that you still snuck a cigarette yesterday. Or that you destroyed my leftovers this morning. Or ..."

"Stop already. You know what I mean." The teasing grins faded to more serious but still positive. "It takes time. He’s on his best behaviour still. Honeymoon period perhaps.”

"I know. A lot of loss for him." Still, John sighed, hoping that deep down, Sameer was indeed settling in and secure.

Sherlock's snicker brought John back to their conversation at hand. "And let me get this right," he pressed, his dark curls shaking a bit as he laughed, "you're not only approving of selfish behaviour, but actually wishing for it?" His hand crept out to find the inside of John's thigh, twitching lightly as his brow raised. "Good news for me."

++

Sameer scooted over on the bed, leaving room for John to share the pillow and headboard so they could read a book, their own bedtime routine. For the most part, John would read slowly, point to some of the words, and watch Sameer closely for his reaction. He was quite "readable" as to when he understood something. His eyes would be narrow, concentrating, mouth in a flat line, thin and serious until he eventually, usually fairly quickly understood, until it clicked for him, and then his eyes would almost change shape, oval to round, his smile easy, mouth relaxed. There was a sparkle as he found the accomplishment.

John considered, not for the first time, that Rosie's books - and she loved them so there was a large and varied collection - were perfect for them all. Smaller, simpler words and stories, very suited for a new reader and learner of English. They took their time with the latest selection, one about a bull who didn't want to be a fighter, and finally it was done, set aside.

"Your room is good?" John asked, taking a glance around, noticing that Sameer kept things straight and orderly.

"Good, yes," Sameer said, still a bit shy. 

"You like it?"

"Like, yes."

John slid off the bed, moved to pull up the duvet, making sure to smile, keeping his tone light as he fussed at the linens. "You could say," he began carefully, "I like it. Or, I like it very much."

"Very much, yes."

"Try the whole sentence."

"I like it, yes, very much."

Close enough, John didn't say. Instead, he concentrated a bit, and said slowly, deliberately, _"Sab baxir."_   Good night.

Sameer repeated that back at John, added something else, as was his routine, to which John would always reply, _"Man namedanam."_  I don't understand.

Tonight, Sameer had chosen to teach John the word for teddy bear, and had brought one Rosie had discarded - gifted him - to his new room. They spoke the word back and forth a few times, both smiling, until John straightened up.

"See you in the morning."

"Yes," Sameer said, his eyes blinking slowly, burrowing a little further into the blankets, the bed, pulling the teddy bear down to share the pillow with him.

With a grin, John moved to turn out the light and remembered the small pile of clean, folded clothes he'd left at the top of the stairs. "Oh, wait," he said, carrying the pile in and opening the closet door to put a few things away, set them on the shelves there. As he did, he spied a small bag tucked behind a blanket in the closet corner that he didn't remember seeing before. Reaching for it, he was vaguely, peripherally aware that, behind him, Sameer had sat bolt upright then, and there was a small gasp.

"What's this now?" he asked, curious, lifting it up.

Behind him, he heard Sameer's voice, distressed, _"Ne! Ne!"_  No, no!

The bag in his hands, not packed overly full, crinkled with packaging from inside, and he half turned to Sameer, whose eyes were wide and horrified. John tucked his fingers inside the drawstring bag, opening it, to find a fairly substantial stash of food. Single serving packs, a lot of them, a few cookies, leftover bag of pretzels, a bottle of water. There was the end of a pack of gum, a tiny sample size bag of nuts that John remembered them seeing at the grocery store on the free sample counter. Almost immediately he realised what was going on, and could feel his chest swell with emotion and sympathy, "Oh Sameer, you don't have to ..." The sight inside the bag nearly broke his heart. Again. He continued gently, softly, "... don't have to keep --" As he was speaking, he looked up from the pack of food to face Sameer, expecting to need to comfort the boy, reassure him that they would never let him go hungry. That he didn't have to worry about his next meal or stockpiling food just in case.

To his surprise, the bed was empty save the teddy bear, which was upended and alone on the pillow. The bag in John's hand slid absently to the floor, and he took a few, quiet steps into the centre of the room.

Sameer was cowering, next to the bed, making himself as small as he could, his arms up over his head. He was ... trembling. John realised he didn't feel so steady himself, either.

"Oh Sameer. You're safe. It's okay." There was a response, a murmuring, in Dari. John slid his mobile from his pocket, typed in the words  _laptop now_  to Sherlock, pressed send. He crouched down, taking a quick seat by the wall and he hoped it was a safe distance, not far but just far enough. Sameer glanced, once, in John's direction, then turned away, burrowing further inside his arms, toward the wall and away from John. "I'm not ... " and he struggled for the word, a word that Sameer would know. "Not mad, not angry." He wanted to reach out, touch, hug, gather the traumatised boy in his arms, but knew culturally, Sameer would only resist, panic more, grow more upset. "It's okay," he said again, echoing it in Dari a few times. Distantly, he listened for response from Sherlock, for the sounds of him coming upstairs, bringing the computer, bringing help.

They would talk, and it would be all right.

Within a few silent minutes, Sherlock's footsteps were solid on the steps, and the laptop was delivered with a questioning glance and a nod from John in gratitude. "I'll be down in a few minutes," he said, and Sherlock took the cues that it was all right to leave, to let John handle it. John was fairly certain Sherlock had already figured out what had happened anyway, just with a few glances around taking in the bag, the rest of the surroundings and the level of Sameer's distress.

They stayed where they were, on the floor, for a few minutes longer, and though Sameer was terribly tense, he didn't bolt or seem completely closed off. With a quiet exhale, John left the laptop closed for a few minutes, choosing instead to simply let his presence be settling, he hoped. To convey that this was not specifically an urgent situation. Finally, when Sameer managed to finally look over, to dare a bit more each time, to eventually look him in the eye, trying to determine John's reaction, John made sure to smile kindly.

Then slowly, he stretched out his arm, palm up, spanning most of the distance between where the two of them sat, and he waited. An offer, an extension, a request.

Sameer stared at the hand, then looked up at John, back at the hand, and then he seemed to sigh. There was a slow, timid, tentative smile, and he put his smaller hand into the gentle and open hand of the man who sat by him, patiently waiting.

++

"Food insecurity," Sherlock said later, quietly, a whisper, perusing quickly one of the more credible websites he'd found. It had been a conversation primarily one-sided with John explaining, reassuring, while Sameer was apparently mortified, embarrassed, and withdrawn. His answers were mostly an apology and very little explanation. "Stems largely from abandonment and hunger." He looked up, waited until John returned the gaze. His eyes gentled, warmed, as John's sad eyes returned the expression. There was a sigh. "Common for orphans or those adopted out of foster care or difficult situations."

John had reassured Sameer that he could keep the food, provided it wouldn't spoil or go stale, and if it made him feel better to have it, then John offered, through the translator, to help maintain it for now. It would be his, John had reassured, for as long as Sameer needed it.

"Hoarding is fairly common in kids neglected, or foster children and adoptions across developing countries."

"Hoarding," John whispered back, his voice broken with sentiment. Sameer was a quiet child anyway, partly a cultural predisposition, but tonight he was even moreso, introspective. "He's known hunger, then, which we knew. Childhood trauma. Anxiety. And he has trust issues." They met eyes again, knowing their own history with that phrase.

"I heard you reassure him with some of these common sense things, here," Sherlock grinned then. "All the right things, John. They need to be reassured that there is always food accessible. That there are frequent meals offered, regular snacks, good structure." They both looked at the information, the article on the computer screen. "You're good at that."

John snickered a bit, realising something else. "And you're not, exactly. He probably will benefit from watching you eating more regularly."

"And he doesn't need to hear you fuss about it when I don't."

John raised a brow in consternation. "Then do the right thing here, for his sake if not for mine."

A faint smirk crinkled the lower right side of Sherlock's mouth. "You're a package deal. I'll try." He pointed to the screen again, lifting out key words and phrases. "Healthy snacks, left out in a bowl or basket and replenished regularly. Make sure to carry a snack when visiting or during school or other day activities."

John leaned in to read a bit along with him. "Says never steal food off their plate. So you should stop doing that to me, and lead by example."

"It always tastes better off your plate."

"Just ... _don't,_ okay?"

Sherlock angled the computer back toward himself, and his nimble fingers flew for a few moments, until he found what he was looking for and showed his search results to John. "What would you think ...?" his voice trailed off before restarting. "I think this would be a healthy way to refocus him, something we could all do together."

The warm flare of affection in John's chest surged again as he considered Sherlock's clever mind and his attention to detailed connections. His problem solving skills now and again just _shined_. He'd located a cookbook that specialised in rural Afghan food recipes.

"That sounds great," John agreed. "Fun, even. We can teach him basic cooking, give him some control. Choices." He gave an almost silent, exhaling laugh, and shook his head. "I wonder if he's been missing some of his favourite foods. I never even thought about it."

A few clicks, and the book was shipping out the following day. Sherlock leaned closer, a hand coming to rest behind John's neck, and he drew them nearer each other. Their heads touching, hair intermingling, they sat like that for a few minutes, breathing, reassured themselves that they would figure this out and emerge on the other side, stronger. And hopefully, the whole family stronger and united.

Light from the street filtered in from behind the drapes, and traffic noise grew quieter as London settled in for the night. Sherlock's arm tightened around John's shoulders when John managed that exhale of resignation, where he had finally realised that they would be all right and that Sameer was - or would be - okay. Leaning in, Sherlock pressed his lips against John's temple, pulling him closer with his hand that then lingered against John's jaw.

"Better?" he asked, his lips still against John's hair.

The nod John responded with didn't seem quite enough, and he shifted on the couch for a better angle. "Yes," he breathed, bringing his own hand up to guide Sherlock's mouth down to his own. Warmth between them flared, and two smiles seemed to take on different boldness. _"Yes,"_ he whispered again as he pressed to his feet, catching Sherlock's hand to lead him down the hall.

++

The topic, the bag, the hoarding, had not been directly discussed for a few days, all of them carefully not mentioning it, not focusing on it. John was letting the emotion, the toll, settle down with Sameer before initiating conversation again. He certainly didn't want to give it more credence than it needed. The cookbook had arrived, and Sameer was both surprised and cautious when Sherlock handed him the sealed cardboard shipping box after it had been delivered. A few smiles and nods, and Sameer tore the box open and then his eyes had lit up at the discovery. Quickly flipping through, he'd brushed his fingers over the pages, then rested on one of the pictures of a common dish. It had been requested that very first night, and they'd made a lovely - and lively - family outing as they purchased the ingredients at one of the international shoppes and then had come home to prepare the meal together. John looked forward, though, to when the newness, the rawness of helping Sameer adjust, would seem easier and more natural. As best they could, they continued their usual routines.

The evening drew late, the house quiet, darkness outside, the sound of the city winding down as pedestrians grew more scarce and traffic settled. John was almost, not quite, dozing off in front of the telly when his radar, his sense of something new, his self-protective awareness activated, and he tapped at Sherlock next to him at the sound he heard. Sherlock was already watching the steps, as both of them heard soft steps.

Sameer ghosted into the room, his feet bare and silent on the hard wood, his demeanor extremely subdued. He was holding the backpack, and John again resisted the urge to approach, to hug, to reassure.

"I'm sorry," he said again, holding out the bag and then dropping his eyes. "Here."

Sherlock found his voice first, and said, "No, it's okay. You can keep ..."

"Sherlock, no," John whispered, reaching out to prevent Sherlock from contradicting what Sameer was doing. "I think he ..." and then he turned to face Sameer. "Okay, if you want to, that's fine." He held out a hand, and Sameer approached to gingerly hand over the bag. "As we said earlier, if you want it, or if you need to keep it with you, that's okay. But I will hold onto it for you, if that's what you want tonight."

++

Rosie let out an impatient squeal. "Come on. Come ON!" She stood by the door, her coat on, ready to go on their planned outing to a special kids theatre production.

"Hold your horses," John said as he and Sherlock waited in the sitting room for Sameer, who was just making his appearance into the room. Sameer was excited too, and his eyes were bright as he zipped up his jacket. With a fond smile, John jerked his head toward the basket they kept near the door. "You want to grab something?" He kept his question low key and quiet.

Sameer's smile was a little uncertain, a small wriggle of his eyebrows, and he kept walking toward the door. "No. Not today."

Sherlock's head angled back at him. "All right. If you're sure."

The smile was more genuine then, and he stood slightly taller as he drew closer to John, then, looking up at him, said, "I'm sure."

"Come _on,"_  Rosie said again, less patiently, stomping her little foot on the step where she was standing. "Let's go."

Sameer joined her on the steps, his pockets empty this time as they ventured out. Their journey with his need to have some sort of food available to him had been mostly slow but very understanding. He'd gone from the large bag in his room, to a basket they kept on the table. He had carried a smaller stuff bag for a while, then a small sport bag, until eventually he would just put something in his pocket. "You heard her," he said, looking back at Sherlock and John, who were still standing inside the flat. "Let's go."

Quietly, John breathed to Sherlock, "Should I ...?" His hand paused in the uncertain direction over where their snack bowl was sitting.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said quietly with a snort. "He made up his mind, so don't second-guess him." He touched the back of John's arm as he strode past to join the children already galumphing down the steps and inclining his head, motioning for John to follow him. With a gleam in his eye, he spoke the words 'Come on' using the same inflection as Rosie had, giving the faintest little shake of his head in exactly the same way Rosie did.

He watched his family ahead of him in various places on the stairs, Rosie excited, Sameer close behind, Sherlock grinning back at him as he could only smile broadly at his good fortune. With a shrug as he followed, he echoed, "Let's go."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ferdinand, by Munro Leaf of course. The story about a bull who would rather sit under a cork tree smelling the flowers than participate in bullfights.
> 
> There are a lot of food issues described in the literature that can affect everyone, and fostered and adopted children perhaps more vulnerable. Children who grow up not knowing if the meal in front of them is going to be their last for a while can overeat, eat too rapidly, have all kinds of sensory issues or GI distress, and it is not uncommon for a hungry child (like Sameer in this story) to hoard or to stow food away "just in case." For more information, check out some of the online resources through local pediatricians offices or adoptive services experts. Though I did not include it in the story (yet), it would be best for Sameer (along with the rest of the family) to seek some counseling services to facilitate his acculturation.
> 
> As I have said about the previous work, squint at some of the details.
> 
> Let me know kindly if I missed something, typos, unclear bits, or if there are ideas you'd like to read about. There are a few more of these ideas brewing, tales of Sameer's adventures here on Baker Street as he gets his bearings and they all deal with change. I have no primary experience with this, only close friendships with two very open moms regarding some of the heartbreak of helping an adopted child navigate their way through some dramatic and traumatic adjustments.


End file.
